Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, 'A whole I planned, youth shows but half; Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!

The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!

That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened the next tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss . . .

Mothers, wives and maids, These be the tools with which priests manage men.

God! Thou art love! I build my faith on that.

Grow old with me! The best is yet to be.

If thou tastest a crust of bread, thou tastest all the stars and all the heavens.